


You Make My Heart Shake, Bend and Break

by ChloeWeird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parent, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alive Hale Family, Angst, Blue Neighbourhood AU, Consensual Underage Sex, Happy Ending, Kid Sterek, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski Dies, Stilinski Family Feels, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Sterek, They're both underage so it's all good, but other than that, troye sivan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:39:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5158973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Stiles are childhood friends, close as brothers. They promise never to leave each other, but life has a way of making you break promises you always intended to keep. </p><p>An AU following the vague plot of Troye Sivan’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fdXNNveYOfU">
Blue Neighbourhood Trilogy</a>, but with a happier(and more conclusive) ending. And werewolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Drives Me Wild

**Author's Note:**

> No knowledge of the Blue Neighbourhood music videos is required, though I highly recommend the music of Troye Sivan. 
> 
> I believe this has been done before in this fandom, but I think the characters were switched around(I don’t know, I haven’t read it yet). So, to clarify:
> 
> This fic stars Derek Hale as Troye Sivan, Stiles Stilinski as Colton Haynes Look-alike and...Sheriff Stilinski as the alcoholic dad. I’M SORRY. I love the Sheriff as much as anyone, and I hate for him to be this broken but I just wanted Derek Hale to be the happy, well-adjusted one for once. So, warnings for abusive and subsequently totally dead Papa Stilinski, no joke, he actually dies. Also, the girlfriend has been recast as the best bro for life so Scott can make an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek is 2 years older than Stiles in this fic. In this chapter, the boys start out at about 5 and 7 and end at 10 and 12.

The sniffling was coming from under the old jungle gym. It was way across the playground, and the wood smelled weird when it was hot, so most kids ignored it and played on the brand new metal and plastic one instead.

Derek approached the castle-shaped structure, and circled it until he found the long tube where a boy sat, his knees tucked up against his chest, wiping his tear-stained face with a grimy hand. It was a tight fit, but the nook was just big enough for Derek to climb in and sit beside the boy. 

“Why are you crying?” He asked, crossing his legs under him, his knee brushing the kid’s hulk green sneakers. They were spotless, not even scuffed, the velcro perfectly neat and straight. It was the first day of school, so Derek’s shoes were in similar condition. 

The boy hunched tighter over his knees and mumbled into his knees, “no one wants to play with me.”

“Why?”

The boy’s head came up and he glared at Derek over his crossed arms. His lip started trembling after a couple seconds of wide-eyed outrage, and he admitted, “I’m weird. And I talk too loud. And Jackson said that Transformers are cooler than Batman.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“That’s what I said!” The boy sat up straighter and heaved a frustrated sigh, his breath hitching a little on the exhale, the last reminder of his recent tears. “There’s no way the Transformers are cooler than Batman.”

Derek nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Stiles.”

“That’s kinda weird.” When Stiles’ face fell, Derek panicked, and thought Stiles might start crying again and it would be all his fault. “But it’s cool!” He rushed to say. 

Stiles smiled again, then scrambled out of the other end of the tube. “Come on, let’s play Batman and Robin smash the Transformers to tiny bits.” 

“Okay.” Derek followed, a bit more carefully, to avoid splinters. 

The jungle gym still smelled weird, and they had to run from a hornet’s nest, but they laughed as they rushed away and the next day, Stiles was waiting at the tube so they could do it again. 

**  
_  
There were kids and adults everywhere, most of them sporting the distinctive thick, dark hair of the Hale clan. John could feel Stiles’ shoulder under his palm vibrating with excitement at the sight of the other kids his age firing water guns on the sprawling lawn. The second he removed his hand, his kid was off like a shot, barrelling into the fray and jumping on Derek’s back with a war cry._

_John smiled as he watched them roughhouse, then found himself at a loss. He hovered at the edge of the food table watching his peers mingle, his hands shoved in his pockets. They were sweating. Which was stupid, really, since he’d faced down a drunken kid waving his daddy’s gun in his face and not even twitched but the thought of mingling and making small talk with these people who didn’t know him was terrifying._

_Claudia used to laugh at his shyness. “You’ll never get elected to Sheriff if you can’t glad hand with the best of them.” She’d been like that. Always goading him, always irritating him out of his comfort zone, or outright pushing him. He clenched his fists in his pockets and tried not to remember all the gatherings they’d gone to where she tugged him from group to group, charming everyone with her vivacity, her hand on his shoulder the whole time._

_“John!”_

_He startled at the booming voice and forced a tight smile as Derek’s larger than life dad slapped his arm in greeting._

_“Glad you could make it. Derek’s been pestering me all day about when you’d be bringing Stiles.” Hale laughed in his ear and his face crinkled with well-worn laugh lines that simultaneously made him look older and more youthful and carefree than John had felt in the last three years. “God, I can’t believe Derek is 12 already. He’s growing like a weed. He’ll be as tall as his mother soon.”_

_Stiles would too, eventually. John figured he had a few years, but eventually, his son would outgrow the pencil markings on the crown moulding of the unused fireplace and maybe then people would stop telling him every other damn day how much his son looked like her._

_“Enough sappiness,” Hale decided, and a cold bottle appeared next to John’s elbow. “Here, wet your whistle. Did you get something to eat? There’s enough to feed a pack of wolves.”_

_John gratefully accepted the beer, even though it was some fancy microbrew from two counties over instead of a working man’s Bud._

_“This is fine, thanks.”_

_Hale slapped his shoulder once more and drifted over to the BBQ to harass his brother-in-law, leaving John where he’d started. Alone and uncomfortable at the edge of the celebration, missing his wife like a limb severed recently and still pouring out his life’s blood._  
  
** 

Stiles was hot and cramped inside the hollow tree and a mosquito bite itched on his ankle, but there was no way he was going to move. This was the best hiding place he’d ever thought of, ever. There was no way Derek would find his for at least an hour. Stiles’ glow-in-the-dark Shrek watch said that it had only been 3 minutes, so he had a long time to wait. He might as well get comfy. He wished he’d brought a book or something, since there was a tiny bit of light that he could have read Harry Potter by--

“Found you.”

“What!” Stiles poked his head through the small crack in the tree and stared at Derek, open-mouthed. “How did you find me so fast?”

“I always find you fast.”

“Yeah, but...” Stiles wiggled out of the tree, grunting with the effort. “This was a really good hiding place.”

Derek nodded, solemnly, and helped Stiles to his feet. “It definitely was. If I’d hid here, it would have taken you ages to find me.”

Stiles scowled and put his hands on his hips. “So, how did you do it, huh? Did you peek?”

“No! I just,” Derek looked at the ground and tamped down a small thistle plant with his sneaker. “I sniffed you out.” 

Stiles gasped and puffed out his small chest. “You saying I smell?”

“Maybe.”

“No more hide and seek,” Stiles decided, and pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “It’s clobbering time!”

Derek turned and took off through the trees, and Stiles followed after, laughing at the thought that he could ever catch Derek if he didn’t want to be caught. 

**  
  
_John popped the top off his third pretentiously oaky beer and flicked the cap in the direction of the garbage bag duct-taped to the end of a picnic table. He took a long swig and damn if it didn’t taste amazing. Just another reason to resent the bottle, with its pretty cursive label and stout green glass._

_John had to fight not to resent his hosts, along with the alcohol they’d provided, free of charge._

_They were good people, the Hales. Kind, charitable, third generation Beacon Hills residents. Owned a quarter of the preserve, showed up to city council meetings to defend the other three quarters from developers. They had picture perfect lives, at least on the outside. They probably invested, could afford to send all their kids to the colleges of their choice._

_John worked every holiday for the overtime pay and was still years away from paying off the mortgage on their tiny house. It was an eyesore, he knew, but any days off he had, he couldn’t face spending on yard work and odd jobs._

_Stiles came home with stories of their widescreen TV and Netflix. John had fallen asleep during the opening scene of the Star Trek remake and woken up to the DVD menu screen playing and Stiles fixing peanut butter and crackers for dinner for the third night in a row._

_“How do you like your burgers, John?” Peter Hale called from patio. “I seem to be able to provide them either well-done or charred beyond recognition.”_

_“I’m good, really,” John called back, then muttered under his breath, “Would you leave me alone, already.”_

_Peter’s head whipped around, though he couldn’t possibly have heard John’s complaint. He raised an eyebrow and smirked in John’s direction, the smile that was most of the reason he’d had never warmed up to the guy._

_John took another long swig to smother the urge to punch Peter in his smug face._

**

Stiles and Derek lay on their backs, half in and half out of the tent in the Hales’ backyard, looking at the stars. Derek’s mom had tried to make it seem fun and exciting to sleep over at their house on a weeknight, but Stiles knew it was because his Dad was too busy with Mom’s funeral. And Dad couldn’t look at Stiles without crying, so Stiles figured it was for the best. 

“Uncle Peter showed me how to see the big dipper. Do you see it?” He pointed over the top of their tent, toward the house. Stiles didn’t see it, but he nodded anyway. He didn’t doubt Derek knew where it was; Uncle Peter knew everything. 

“Babcia says that my mom’s up there now. She said that she’s in a better place now.” His breath hitched on an inhale and his face got hot as the tears came. “I think I’m a bad son. I don’t want her to be in a better place. I want her to be with me.”

Derek turned onto his side and pulled Stiles into his arms, rubbing his back and kissing the top of his head as he cried, just like his mom did when he was upset. They shared a pillow all night, and in the morning, when Stiles’ babcia came to get him to go to the funeral, his eyes were swollen and wide, but dry.

**  
_  
John cursed as he sliced his finger on the edge of the bottle cap he was prying off. Near him, an elderly aunt tsked and John felt the back of his neck heat up._

_Having given up on the the burgers, Peter was wandering from couple to couple, schmoozing with all of them and flashing his sharp, smug smile at them all. John should have felt relaxed with all the beer he’d had, but he could still feel his jaw clench when Peter approached him._

_“Your Stiles is a spitfire, John,” he slimed. “He talks circles around me. How do you keep up with him?”_

_John bristled at the dig at Stiles, but answered vaguely, “It’s been easier since he was put on Adderall.”_

_Peter tapped a finger next to his hippie goatee. “You know, I read an interesting article the other day about how ADHD is over-diagnosed and over-treated in this country.”_

_John gripped his beer harder “You think you know my kid better than I do?”_

_“Not at all. Just an interesting perspective.” Peter’s eyes narrowed a bit as John took a deep swallow of Rich Asshole Beer number...four? It might have been five. “Do you think you ought to slow down a bit, John?”_

_“No, I don’t.”_

_“How about a burger, then, soak up some of that beer.”_

_“I said, I’m fine.”_

_Peter flashed that smirk again and John saw red._  
  
**

“Ow! Watch it!”

“I’m sorry!”

Stiles yanked his arm out of Derek’s grip, which hadn’t really been any tighter than usual. He put his opposite hand over the arm that ached and scrunched up his face at the pain.

“What happened?” Derek asked, and tugged on the sleeve of Stiles’ T-shirt. Stiles was too slow to stop him, and he saw the blue and brown bruises in the shape of a handprint on Stiles’ arm. 

“Whoa,” said Derek. Stiles waited for him to ask again about what happened, but it didn’t come. Derek just continued to stare at him, sad and confused and comforting. Stiles caved under those hazel eyes.

“I woke my Dad up. He was relaxing last night, but I needed money for lunch and I woke him up.” Stiles shrugged, careful not to jostle his arm too much, or think of his dad’s face when he’d come out of his deep sleep flailing and grasping. “It’s fine. He was really sorry.”

Derek didn’t say anything for a long time, just looked at Stiles with his fluffy caterpillar eyebrows drawn. Eventually, Stiles felt weird and hot with those eyes lock on his face, so he reached out and smoothed Derek’s eyebrows up and out. Derek scowled deeper and grabbed his hands, pinning them to his chest then steering him toward the cafeteria doors, carefully avoiding the injured arm. 

“Come on. I’ve got some extra allowance for your lunch.”

“Thanks, dude.” 

They ate lunch together, sharing apples and milk cartons and double the shoestring french fries. Stiles chalked the absence of pain in his arm to the time he spent laughing at making Derek do walrus faces. 

That night, Derek runs around the far edge of the perimeter three times before he finally walks into the living room to talk to Talia. 

“What’s eating you, kid?” She asks, since the scent of his trepidation is conspicuous. Derek huffs and rubs his forehead into her knee a few times. Talia doesn’t stop him, even though her father says he’s too old for that kind of comfort. 

“Stiles.”

“Yes? What about him?”

“He smells,” Derek growls, searching for the right word and getting only frustration. Talia drops her hand to his hair and drags the tips of her claws over his nape, gratified when he slumps and takes a deep breath. “He smells sad.” 

Talia’s throat tightens as she thinks of Claudia, so lively, so joyous, unable to comfort her son in her absence. “He misses his mother, darling. Wouldn’t you be sad?”

“No, Mom, he was getting better. But, now it’s worse, and he’s--”

“He’s what?”

“Scared.”

Talia frowned, and paused the gentle scritch of her fingers. She shook off the prickle of unease with logic. “I’m sure it’s a scary time for him right now. He’ll be going to middle school soon, and it might be hard for him to fit in.” 

“But is he okay? Should I tell Mr. Stilinski?”

“No.” It comes out harsher than she meant it too, but she couldn’t regret it. “You know you couldn’t explain how he smells to Stiles’ dad. He’ll be fine, Derek. Just give him some time.”

**  
__  
John didn’t remember much after that. He remembers shoving Peter, and being even more enraged that he barely seemed to flinch, didn’t topple into the picnic table like John had pictured. He heard the words coming out of his mouth, loud, ugly, profane words, but it was more like he was hearing someone else say them. He remembered Derek’s father getting up from the muskoka chair he was holding court in, frowning at the disturbance at his perfect son’s perfect birthday party.

_He remembered Stiles’ hands on stomach, pressing and patting, trying to calm him but only succeeding in making him nauseous. (He hadn’t remembered throwing up in a bush until he smelled the vomit spatter on his shoes the next day.)_

_He didn’t remember the drive home, or how he got into the house and onto the couch. He didn’t remember the 15 minute call to Melissa’s cellphone that his call history said he’d made, even though she would have been at work. He didn’t remember how his eyes got so red and swollen from crying, but he could fill in the blanks. He had lots of practice with that._

_His life was one big blank page without Claudia._

**

“Who’s gonna be the mayor?”

“The what?”

“The mayor, you know,” Stiles threw his hands to the sky, giving Derek a long-suffering look. “The guy who says all the words and marries us.”

Peter can’t hold back his snort of laughter and abandoned his post by the porch swing. He hadn’t been hiding, per se. Just watching, and hoping the scene before him turned out to be as hilarious and adorable as he thought it would. 

“I think you mean minister, Stiles. What do you need one for?”

“Derek and I are getting married!” Stiles proclaims, proudly, unfazed by his error. 

“Is that so?” Peter tried to keep his face pleasantly neutral, but going from Derek’s deep blush, he wasn’t succeeding. “And when did you decide this?”

“Today. Derek’s Aunt Lisa is getting married next week, you know--”

“I’m aware of that, yes.” 

“--And Laura was telling us about how when you get married, there’s flowers and music and rehearsing and you gotta get up and tell everyone how much you love your person you’re gonna marry. I love Derek, so I wanna practice getting married just in case I have to tell everybody.” 

Peter smothered his laughter again, for Derek’s sake. If the kid got any redder in the face, he might pass out. Ah, what a difference two years can make in a boy’s capacity for embarrassment. Or maybe Stiles was just that unflappable. It was a possibility. 

“Well, that’s a great idea, Stiles. But you still need a minister?” Peter craned his head around the backyard, theatrically. Seeing that they were alone, he offered, “Well, I guess I could volunteer.”

Stiles agreed immediately, and Peter googled a classic “dearly beloved” on his phone. If he snapped a few photos of Stiles walking down an aisle made out of sweaters laid end to end and of Derek slipping a blade of grass onto Stiles’ finger, it wasn’t his fault that the shutter noise was set to silent. 

**  
_  
“John.”_

_“I don’t think you have any business here, Talia.”_

_“You’re going to drop out of the running for Sheriff..”_

_John laughed, a dried up husk of the warm chuckle Talia remembered. “Why the hell should I listen to you? I’d be the best damn Sheriff this town has ever seen.”_

_“That’s true enough. When you’re sober.”_

_In the ensuing silence, Talia lets her gaze linger over the empty glasses, full bottles and piles of dirty laundry cluttering the living room. At the centre of it all, Stiles’ backpack sat, open, his math homework sitting on top, unfinished._

_“Drop out, John. Spend some time with Stiles and get your life back together. Talia raised a hand with the intention to place it on John’s shaking-stiff shoulder, but stalled halfway. She adjusted her purse on her arm and stood straighter instead. “Or I’ll tell the county why it is you need to.”_

_She turned away to leave, but at the front door, she paused. “Claudia wouldn’t see any of the man she loved in you right now. Find him again, in her memory.”_

_She’d just stepped off the last step of the porch when she heard the crash of an empty scotch bottle hitting the door._

**

The thick tree branch was big and strong enough to hold them both, so they sat, facing each other, legs dangling, hands clinging, and peered down over the edge. When that got a bit too scary, they both wrapped their arms around the branch and lay on their stomachs, cheeks scraping the bark. Stiles grinned at the tickle of Derek’s spiky hair against the top of his head. 

When the drop no longer looked quite so overwhelmingly far, Stiles uncurled his hand from the white-knuckled grip on the branch and let his arm swing down. In moments, Derek did the same and they laced their fingers together, swinging their arms back and forth in the air. 

“You’re the best, Derek.” Best friend, best protector, best partner in crime. “We’ll be together forever right?” 

Derek lifted his head and rested his chin on the bark. He smiled widely, showing off his big front teeth like he never did at school. “Always.”

**  
_  
“What’s wrong?”_

_“Nothing, go away.”_

_“But, why are you crying?”_

_“I’m not!”_

_The boy clumsily dodged the handful of sand Stiles threw his way, but he still had to shake his leg like a dog to clean the dust off of the leg of his jeans. Stiles ignored him and hunched down further into his knees, turning his face away to hide his red raw cheeks. He was nearly a man, his dad had said. 10 years old was too old to cry like a baby, even if he missed Derek so much that his stomach hurt and he couldn’t eat his strawberry jam sandwich because his throat hurt._

_“Why are you sitting here alone?”_

_Man, this kid did not give up. Stiles wiped the sleeve of his Batman T-shirt across his face once just in case, and turned to face the new kid. “‘Cause I don’t have any friends.”_

_“None?”_

_“I used to have one,” he admitted, his throat getting achy and tight again. “But he isn’t my best friend anymore.”_

_On the weekend, Stiles had gone grocery shopping with his dad and they’d seen Derek and his mom in the ice cream aisle. Stiles had waved and Derek had smiled back, but Talia had taken him by the shoulder and steered him away before they could say anything. That night, Stiles asked his dad if he could go over to Derek’s after school to play with his new DS, and his dad had sent him to his room without his dinner. Stiles hadn’t minded, even though he was hungry. When he’d said Derek’s name, his dad had slammed down the plate he’d been washing so hard he’d broken it, and used the voice that scared Stiles._

_“That sucks.” The boy sat heavily down next to him, kicking his scuffed, holey shoes out and hitting them together, making big puffs of dusty sand cloud in the air. “I don’t have a best friend either. Do you wanna be each other’s?”_

_Stiles took a good long look at the kid. His shirt was too big, so the sleeves flopped around his skinny arms, and his hair was fluffy and fell over his forehead into his eyes. He had a nice smile, crooked teeth and all._

_“Do you like comic books?” Stiles asked._

_The kid shrugged. “I dunno. Never read one. I’m Scott.”_

_Stiles’ eyes went wide. “You’ve never read a comic book?”_

_Scott wouldn’t replace Derek. Stiles didn’t think anyone ever could. He felt like he had a hole in his heart next to the one his mother left, and just as big as hers, even though he knew that he couldn’t actually get a hole in it without spurting blood like the animes his dad didn’t know he watched._

_But Scott would do for a new friend. Stiles scooted closer to his new best friend and spent the rest of recess telling him about the entire Justice League._

**

The warm sun trickled through the trees. The air was hot and thick as soup, but the boys ran anyway, too crazed with the thought of the summer ending to slow down and catch their breath. One of them could hear the scurrying of small animals running away through the underbrush, but the other, even if he’d had supernatural hearing, would have been too busy shouting for the other to hurry to pay attention to a couple of rabbits diving for cover. 

Their destination was just minutes away. Their sneakers wouldn’t last until fall if they kept this pace up for the rest of the summer, but they didn’t care. The crest loomed in front of them, and they both knew what was on the other side; Yards of long, soft grass, tended only a few times a year by the Hales. The hill was steep, and the trip down was a long one, if you were being careful.

The boys didn’t want to be careful. They grabbed hands as they neared the top of the peak, breathing hard from excitement, more than exhaustion. They could have run for miles on the buzzing energy of their fading vacation.

Once at the highest point, they wasted no time in lying on their stomachs, just far enough that their fingertips touched when they stretched as far as they could. 

“You ready?” Derek asked. 

Stiles didn’t answer, merely grinned his gap-toothed grin and shouted, “go!”

And they were off. Rolling faster and faster, watching the blue sky disappear and reappear. Knowing that the the world would still be spinning when they stood up and stumbled back up the hill to do it again. 

They were best friends, and they had all the time in the world.


	2. Only Fools Fall For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found the sequence of events in [the video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxg222-hWWc) a tad confusing, so this is how I interpreted it, but someone who’s watched it might have seen it differently. 
> 
> Polish courtesy of Google Translate. If you speak Polish, please feel free to let me know how wrong it is.

Derek took his time walking down the well worn path from the road to the cemetery, his hands shoved in his pockets. He wished he had his set of keys to the Camaro to bite into the pads of his fingers, but he hadn’t driven here, he’d just walked through the preserve in the direction he knew the small groundskeeper’s building would be. 

And he followed his nose, to the familiar scent he couldn’t get out of his olfactory memory if he tried. 

He’d been putting this off for months. Well, years, to be more accurate. Now that the deadline was fast approaching, he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t wanted to see Stiles, talk to him, since their close friendship had ended with an angry slam of a car door at a birthday party. 

The neat rows of trees end and they’re replaced by neat rows of headstones. Stiles is a lone skyscraper amidst the modest grave markers, his head bowed and averted from the aggressively setting sun. Derek’s palms sweat and his mouth goes dry at the sight of him, but his heart beats fast, just like it always did. 

Maybe not always. Not at the beginning, but later. 

The grass is too well-kept to crunch when Derek approaches, but Stiles heard him anyway. His head snapped up from the words he must have read a thousand times, that Derek was now close enough to see, though he knew what was etched there. _Beloved daughter, wife and mother. Teraz w stanie spoczynku_. Derek had looked up the phrase in a Polish pocket dictionary he’d found in the library after the first time he’d come to visit Mrs. Stilinski’s grave. Now at rest is what he was pretty sure it meant. 

He wondered if it still made Stiles feel like a bad son. 

“Hey.”

Derek startled, then flinched in embarrassment that he’d been so hesitant to start this conversation that he’d zoned out staring at the headstone inscription. 

“Hi.” Everything Derek had planned to say flew out of his head. He tried to picture the conversation starters he’d written down in his English notebook that morning, but all he could see was Stiles’ long fingers twitching at his sides, the nape of his neck bared by the buzz cut he’d sported since his first year of high school. 

“So, how have you been?”

“Good.” Derek latches onto the open-ended question. Trust Stiles to try and make this interaction easier for him by filling the gaps. “I’m been good. And you?”

Stiles nodded, but didn’t say anything. He turned his head back to the gravestone, contemplated it for a few more moments during which Derek wasn’t sure if he should try again to speak, then he touched the grey-blue stone and turned to walk back to his jeep. 

“Well, this has been sufficiently awkward,” he muttered as he passed. 

“Wait.” Derek reached out a hand, and it hovered over Stiles’ shoulder for awhile before Derek retracted it and shoved it back into his pocket. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“This is what you call talking? Staring at me while I stare at my mom’s grave?”

It should have been mean, but Stiles couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice, and Derek was reminded of their shared tendency to offend other people. Derek, through his inability to form flowery words to soften his bluntness, and Stiles, from his brain working too quickly with his mouth to filter anything. They'd decided early in their friendship that neither of them meant it, so forgiveness had never been necessary for feelings that hadn't been hurt by careless words. 

“We used to--” Derek broke off.

“That’s true. We used to,” Stiles agreed, and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, fidgeting his hands in front of his thighs. 

“I’m leaving Beacon Hills. I’m going to live with my sister, in New York.”

“Early acceptance to Columbia, right?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t ask how Stiles knew, though he was dying to. _Did you ask about me,_ he wanted to know. _Do you care that I’m going?_

“I hear things.” Stiles answered anyway. “For real, though. What are you doing here, Derek?” 

Derek had always loved his name on Stiles’ lips. In Stiles’ motormouth, it had always seemed warmer, and more precious somehow, than when the teacher called it out to take attendance at school. When he was 12, he used to keep himself up trying to figure out how it would sound if Stiles said his name the way he breathed Lydia. Like a prayer, like salvation, even at 10 years old. 

“Do you ever wish things had gone differently? When we were kids, I mean.” 

Stiles took a long time to answer. His eyes were trained on the golden red glow of the sky from the setting sun. “Sure, I do.” 

There wasn’t even wind to rustle in the trees to fill the silence, thanks to California in September. There was just the heavy, heated air and Derek’s quiet indecision. He wished Stiles would turn a bit more so that he could see his whole face, though it probably wouldn’t have helped Derek to know what he was thinking. Even straightforward, expressive Stiles could lie with his face if he wanted to, and he could do it well. 

“I have to go.” Stiles said, and this time Derek didn’t try to stop him. Stiles paused of his own accord, just before he reached his beat up jeep. “I’ll see you around?” He called, and the bottom of Derek’s stomach jumped to his throat with stupid hope. 

“You will.”

“Cool. One more question. Why are you going so far away? To be with your sister?” 

“Yeah,” Derek said, which was the truth. He’d never tell the other reason though, which was that he knew New York was about as far as he could get away from Stiles when this whole thing inevitably fell apart. 

**

Stiles shut the door behind him and leaned against it, eyes closed. His heart was still beating faster than normal, his face still warm and the fluttering in his stomach must have gone through several generations of caterpillar to butterfly by this point. All from the hour spent with Derek, sat on the bench under a tree that kept spitting tiny leaves at them, getting stuck in Derek’s hair. Derek combed enough product through it that he often couldn’t feel when the spiny leaves landed on his head, so it was up to Stiles to pick them out, messing up the artful tousle with every brush of his fingers. 

Stiles couldn’t ever figure out how Derek knew when he was visiting his mom. It wasn’t like he had a schedule. He’d go after school, sometimes, or in the mornings on the weekend. Once or twice he’d gone during his lunch hour when he needed to clear his head. Despite that, Derek had managed to show up across the field at the cemetery every couple of weeks for the last couple of months. 

They didn’t talk that much, or at least, Derek didn’t. But even Stiles never seemed to talk about anything important when he rambled on, about school or videogames or how likely was to get caught if he tripped Jackson on his face while they were running suicides. 

They definitely didn’t talk about the last 6 or so years. 

Stiles opened his eyes when he heard his dad in the kitchen, and pushed off the door to join him. 

His dad was at the counter, adding milk to a bowl of cereal and he greeted Stiles as he opened the fridge to see if there was anything inside that could be considered edible for an early lunch. The ice dispenser was making that annoying buzzing sound again, he noted, absently. He’d have to treat it to some percussion therapy before too long.

“How are you, kid?” His dad asked, around a mouth full of cornflakes.

That was a question that Stiles answered truthfully whenever it was posed to him. He’d say he was fine, volley the question back, and they’d both go on with their day, his dad usually off to work, or to sleep in the ancient armchair that made his back hurt every time, Stiles to start his never ending pile of homework. 

There were things he could say instead. He could say that he still thought Harris had it out for him more than any other kid in his class, or that he was feeling good about his chances for valedictorian, even though he was still 2 years away from graduation. Or that hazel eyes and tightly clenched fists were making nightly appearances in his dreams. 

The problem was that Stiles had trained himself not to bring these sorts of things up, because he was tired of being disappointed when the reaction wasn’t what he was hoping for. Quite simply, his dad never seemed to be capable of being proud of him without some sort of caveat. He looked for fault, completely unconsciously, in everything Stiles did. Stiles busted his butt, and made it on the lacrosse team. His dad told him he shouldn’t be too broken up about not making first line, before any congratulations. He got As in all his classes except one, his dad asked him what happened in AP calc. He told his dad he was crushing on Lydia Martin, he got a gentle speech about how he should keep his expectations realistic, lest he get his heart broken. 

Stiles knew he didn’t do it on purpose. He was proud of Stiles’ GPA and came to as many games as he could. He was just a pessimist, who found it hard to see the good in things. Stiles just learned to take the encouraging shoulder slaps and fatherly pep talks when he could get them offered freely, and never to ask for approval outright.

He would occasionally forget. It had been months since he’d told his dad he’d gotten a 98 on his English test, ( _“Where did the other two marks go?”_ ) and sworn, for the hundredth time to keep his cards close to his chest. Something about the buoyant, happy feeling in his chest, the companionable quiet in the kitchen, and the obnoxious crunching that Stiles was sure his mom would have complained about made him want to tell his dad how he really was, and what he was doing.

Now was as good a time as any. From the single used glass in the sink and the fact that his dad hadn’t taken his uniform pants off yet, Stiles figured he’d had a couple of fingers of whiskey, enough to get him relaxed after a long night of work, but not enough to make him maudlin. 

“I ran into Derek Hale today,” he tried, thinking that he could ease into it.

“Oh yeah? What did that punk want?”

Disappointment bloomed in his sternum, and he closed the fridge firmly, if not loudly. “He’s hardly a punk, Dad. He’s got early acceptance to Columbia.”

“Easy to do if you’ve got parents who could pay your whole way, with money left over to grease some palms. He wears that leather jacket in the middle of summer, and drives that muscle car around like he owns the place. He’s either a punk or a pretentious snob like the rest of his family.” 

“How are they snobs? Sure, they’re pretty wealthy, but it’s not like they flaunt it.”

“You don’t call that gigantic house of theirs flaunting? How many people even live there? What do they need a mansion for?”

“Seven. And it was built by their great grand-something. They did an article in the paper about it last year, remember?”

The cereal bowl landed on the counter with a clunk. “Christ, because they’ll never let anybody forget that they’re the reason this town exists.” 

“Why is that such a bad thing? Why are they snobby, self-important assholes because they’ve got more money than us?”

“You watch your language, Stiles. And I think you better consider whether back talk like that is allowed in this house.”

There was no resurrecting this conversation, and Stiles’ sparking hope had been replaced by bitter resentment, so he bit off, “Yeah, what the fuck ever, Dad,” and left the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time to get to his room. 

He regretted it as soon as he slammed the door. 

“Stiles, get back down here. You don’t talk to your father like that.”

It was probably the whiplash from the high of the afternoon and the harsh crash of reality, but he figured that if he was in this deep, he might as well take the plunge.

“Nah, I’m good up here.”

Stiles’ pulse skyrocketed when he heard his father’s footsteps on the stairs, and he whipped around to ineffectually lean on the door. He stumbled back into the room when his father shoved it open with surprising strength. The collar of Stiles’ shirt is in his hands and yanked up to Stiles’ chin in seconds, clenched knuckles digging into the soft underside of his jaw. He put his face right up in Stiles’ when he started to rant about how the Hales were to blame for every misfortune and disappointment his dad had ever had, starting with the fact that John hadn’t been elected Sheriff, completely ignoring the reality that he’d been fired and now worked as mall security, with no help from them. Now close enough to smell his father’s breath, Stiles thought he might have made a miscalculation about much his dad had had to drink. 

This was the part that Stiles hated the most, because his dad’s coherence tended to dissolve quicker the louder he got. It was difficult to keep a blank face when he could feel tiny flecks of spit landing on it and he wanted nothing more than to let the tears come and wash the disgusting moisture away, but he’d learned that “waterworks” only made the rage burn hotter. This time, he tried to defend himself during the small pauses where his dad took a breath, but they were few and too short lived for a real rebuttal. 

The fists stretching his T-shirt and pushing him further into the room started punctuating sentences with short jerks, and Stiles thought it might be wrapping up. As he pictured the sequence of events that was likely to follow: He’d be grounded, given the cold shoulder for a few days, then everything would blow over, go back to normal, like nothing had ever happened. His anger flared bright at the fucking predictability of it all.

“They ruined my life,” his dad was yelling, with an added twist of his shirt. “They ruined yours!”

“No, dad, you did.”

The slap came blessedly fast, with no build-up to tense against. It was only due to luck(and a dominant right hand) that Stiles fell against his mattress instead of into his desk, only chance that he just jammed his ribs with the footboard instead of adding a concussion to the prickling hot pain in his cheek. 

“You talk to that fucking Hale kid again, I’ll kill both of you!” 

The door slammed and Stiles didn’t even jump at the gunshot decibel. Didn’t dare move. He kept his hand on his face where it had flown up as a reflex and left his legs twisted awkwardly in front of him. He’d stay there for a little while. He’d focus on the pounding of his blood under the skin of his cheek to keep his mind blank. A little while longer, because once he got up from the end of his bed, got a cold cloth, looked in the mirror, he wouldn’t be just a living being who breathed and sweat and counted the beats of their pulse in their zygomatic arch. When he got up to look in the mirror, he’d be a kid whose dad had hit him hard enough to make him taste blood on his lip.

**

The late afternoon outside was too still and warm for there to be a breeze when the window opened, but he felt the displacement of air anyway, and heard the muted rasp of the window sliding open. There was no squeaking, no places where the wood stuck to the sides, though the paint around the frame was cracked and peeling. Stiles had maintained the smooth glide of the window though the last 6 years, though no one had come in or out of it in all that time.

“I’m not even going to ask how you knew,” he said, when Derek shut the window behind him. 

It used to happen sometimes when they were kids. Derek always seemed to know when Stiles was upset, and he’d bike over from his house and climb up to Stiles’ room to comfort him.

Stiles was on his bed, on his back, staring up at the ceiling and reciting the lines of his favourite movies in his head. He’d tried putting one of them on but it had been too easy to zone out and start thinking again. This way was better, since he could remember five different villain monologues if he really concentrated and it kept his breathing from getting too fast and his palm from creeping up to his face, where his skin felt tight. 

Stiles turned his head and watched, impassively, as Derek toed off his shoes and laid his leather jacket over the back of the desk chair. Stiles almost laughed at the sight of it. What a punk Derek was. Running around in that jacket. Sneaking into his friend’s bedroom, sitting on his bed, pulling him up by the wrists into a tight hug--

The tears came when his head hit Derek’s shoulder, the sobs clawing out of his throat like a parasite, so stifled and guttural that they hurt. Derek’s soft shirt soaked up the salt greedily and muffled the minimal noise of his pain, so that anyone passing by outside of Stiles’ door would have no clue that his soul was tearing a hole in itself trying to reconcile the father he loved with a stock image from a school assembly about domestic violence. It didn't matter, since they were alone in the house, but Stiles had never been able to cry noisily. He wondered if it would be therapeutic, to rail at the world’s injustices out loud. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, but when he’d cried himself out, he became aware of Derek’s wide palm sliding smoothly over his shoulder blades. It was warm. And nice. He had a headache, and his eyes were scratchy but Derek’s arms around him felt good and Stiles tightened his arms around Derek’s middle. 

Somehow, between lying on the bed and clinging to Derek like a 5 year old, he’d managed to throw his legs on either side of Derek, while Derek sat back on his heels, kneeling the V they made. It shouldn’t have been comfortable. His back was arched awkwardly, and Derek’s ankles would probably be hurting from the pressure of both his thighs and Stiles’ on top of them, but he never wanted to move.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Derek asked, and Stiles felt the vibration of the soft murmur through his collarbone. It made him want to bare his neck and feel more of the delicious, deep voice that sent pleasant jitters down his spine. 

“No.” Stiles lifted his head from Derek’s shoulder and dragged his hands up to rest on Derek’s neck, his thumbs brushing against his stubbled jawline. His hazel-green eyes were so close like this, and so intent that Stiles could could the small flecks of true brown. “I really don’t.”

“Okay.”

Stiles wet his dry lips with his tongue and watched Derek’s eyes flick down to watch it, then trail slowly up back to Stiles’ eyes. They were both breathing open-mouthed, almost panting, though neither had moved for ages. Stiles closed the distance between their mouths so slowly he thought maybe Derek hadn’t noticed him coming closer, like some sort of optical illusion. For a second he panicked, convinced he was reading this all wrong, but then Derek met him in a kiss that was slow and soft.

Stiles let his eyes fall closed. In the back of his mind, he thought if he’d been watching from the outside, he might have been embarrassed at the small, wet sounds their mouths made as they met and parted again and again. Stiles had often rolled his eyes and fast-forwarded through frantic French kisses in rom coms he only watched on days he was home sick. Now, the tug of their lips and the cautious slide of Derek’s tongue made Stiles’ hands grab urgently to Derek’s neck.

Stiles let Derek lead, for a while, following when he surged and retreated as the kiss got hotter and more vital. Eventually, Stiles squirmed, twisting his legs back underneath him so he was kneeling up, his body flush against Derek’s and his neck tilted down so that they could keep kissing while Stiles rocked his hips, guttural sounds catching his throat again, this time muffled not by a cotton henley but by Derek’s teeth clicking harshly against Stiles’ in their haste. Derek brought his hands up to frame Stiles’ face after that, gentling his working jaw and using his tongue to wring a keening noise out of Stiles.

They broke apart, Stiles’ shaky fingers squeezing hard on the broad shoulders beneath his palms, capturing a moment of electrified peace to pant. By silent agreement, Derek grabbed the bottom of Stiles’ shirt and tugged it up. Fingernails scratched against the skin of Stiles’ ribs as his shirt came off and Stiles was so worked up that that tiny sting was enough to make him moan. 

Stiles’ shirt hit the floor the same time his back hit the bed, and both pairs of hands reached for the fly of his jeans. The jammed their fingers awkwardly in their hurry and Stiles took over with a silent huff of a laugh. When he finished and looked up, Derek had taken off his own shirt, revealing his chest and Stiles suddenly had no strength left in his arms with which to start pushing down his own waistband. Derek had to help, tugging at the stiff fabric while Stiles pushed his hips up to make room. It took some maneuvering, but eventually Stiles’ jeans joined his shirt on the floor. 

Derek spent a few moments running his hands over the newly bared skin, then, with an impatient snarl, flipped over onto his back next to Stiles to take off his own pants. Mostly naked, breathing hard and watching Derek as the bed trembled with the force of his undressing, it sort of hit Stiles for real. They were doing this. It wasn’t his imagination, or wishful thinking that a bro sleepover would turn into something more. 

Derek kicked his too-tight jeans off the end of the bed and turned over, the heat of his skin shocking in its sudden presence, all over Stiles’ front, their legs, their arms. They were touching everywhere. 

Derek’s thumb brushed Stiles cheek as they kissed again, and his lips muffled Stiles’ moans as he started to rock his hips down. Stiles got lost in the rhythm and everything that was wrong in his world faded away like a forgotten summer afternoon. 

**

John sat in his car, the rusted junker he’d been forced to buy after he’d turned in his cruiser, outside the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department. His knuckles were white on the crumbling rubber of the steering wheel, leaving powdery black marks on his palms. He could clean them off. Grab a napkin and some hand sanitizer and scrub away the filth but it would only go skin deep, so he kept them, and wished they were red, like they should be.

He’d left his open bottle of comfort at home, and he wanted a drink more than he wanted his next breath, but he had something to do. Something important that he needed to be sober for. 

In just a few more minutes, John was going to march himself inside the building and ask to be arrested. He’d give his statement, look into the eyes of the men and women he used to work alongside and tell them that he’d hit his baby boy hard enough to bruise.

John let his head fall to the steering wheel, unable to hold it up under the weight of his sick guilt.

He’d always been prone to blacking out when he drank in excess. He was drinking so much these days that he forgot half his life, and not by accident. When the weekend came and he had two whole days with no job to distract him and keep him tired, he’d drink more than he ever had in college. When Sunday night came, and he had to pull himself together for work the next day, he’d remember snatches, foggy blips after a certain point, but never the whole picture. Sometimes, in his worst nightmares, he’d almost remember wrapping a punishing hand around a skinny arm, or emphasizing a angry point hard enough to bruise.

He’d chalked them up as just that: Nightmares. Fantasies dreamt up by his brain, perhaps to try and scare him back on the right track.(There was no right track for him any more. He was at the end of his line, speeding toward a wall without Claudia to slow him down.) Now, he had to wrack his brain, trying to remember those dreams to see if he could tell them from memories. And if they were? He figured if he could tell absolutely that all those flashes of violence were more than nightmares, he wouldn’t be turning himself in. 

He’d be stepping out into traffic. 

A knock on the passenger window had John jumping to look. Deputy Parrish waved cheerily on the other side of the glass. John rolled down the window and remembered how young Jordan had seemed when John had cleared out his desk to go. He’d just started with the department and was green as John had been, but he’d looked right in the uniform, comfortable, even then. 

“John! Good to see you, sir.”

“You too, Jordan. You too.”

Parrish had always been a shrewd guy. It had earned him John’s respect early on, but now it worked against him. “How’ve you been keeping, John?” Parrish asked, and it was more probing, more serious than the how-are-yas casually thrown into normal conversation, that never really required an honest answer, or one at all. Parrish hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, probably, and had no idea what he looked like on a good day, so for him to be asking in that softly sympathetic tone of voice, John figured he must look like shit. Hell, he felt like shit. 

“I’m fine, Deputy.” Keep that distance, John decided. Placate his natural curiosity and end this train wreck of a conversation, so he could get on with his fiery plane crash of a life.

“How’s Stiles?”

“He’s good.” _God, I hope he’s good. If he isn’t, it’s on me._

“That’s good.” Parrish thumped the car door firmly, but with enough care that John thought he might be wishing it was John’s shoulder he was patting. “Well, tell him I say hi. And don’t work too hard. Take care of yourself. You’re all that boy has left.”

John watched him go with a new wound adding fresh blood to the ones still freely flowing. Parrish was right. He couldn’t ask Stiles if all of those dreams had left marks in the physical world. He couldn’t. If the answer was yes, John would not be long for this world. It was better to wonder, to numb the pain with drink and keep inching toward a slower death. He couldn’t leave Stiles. Not right now. Not yet. 

John started the car and drove away. 

**

Derek lay face down on the bed, his boxers riding low on his hips. Stiles traced his fingers up Derek’s back, starting all the way down from his ass, and leaving goosebumps all the way up to the nape of his neck. On his way back down, his fingertips paused on the triskele tattoo, which had only just stopped peeling and itching a month ago, despite how quick he usually healed. 

“How hard did your mom kill you for this?”

“It wasn’t too bad.” Derek shrugged, jostling Stiles’ palm, which he’d flattened to cover the black spirals. “She was more upset that the guy accepted my obviously fake ID.” Never mind that it had been less than 3 months until Derek was 18. 

“Hey, it’s not the tattoo parlour’s fault that you look like you look like you’re 30.”

It had always been like this. Even when they were kids, they had this banter, could tease each other mercilessly without ever going too far. Derek smiled and nestled his face deeper into the pillow. The dying sun was shining through the window, painting stripes across their legs and the Spider-Man sheets. Stiles was curled up next to him, and Derek wanted to commit this moment, and the heated ones that had preceded it, to his memory, since God knew, it might be fleeting. 

“What does it mean? And don’t give me any bullshit about it just looking cool, like Jackson’s tribal monstrosity.” Stiles gave the tattoo one more perfunctory pat, then flipped onto his back, his head twisted toward Derek. “I know you. It’s got some deep and philosophical meaning.”

“It means past, present and future. It reminds me that everything I’ve ever done or will do, and everyone I’ve met, or have yet to meet is a part of me.”

“Which part am I?”

Derek lifted himself up on his elbows, leaned over and kissed Stiles on his red, red lips, gently, so he didn’t irritate the soft skin any more. “That’s up to you.”

Derek could see the moment when Stiles closes up, but he chose to ignore it. He brought his hand up to stroke Stiles’ cheek with his thumb, even as Stiles’ body went tense and his eyes shuttered. Stiles’ hand closed around Derek’s and pulled it to his chest, cradling it between both of his palms. Derek wanted to kiss him again, harder this time, pin him down and make the tension leave his body for just a little longer, but they were both spent, and Derek had, apparently, overstayed his welcome. 

“My dad could be back any time,” Stiles murmured, staring down at the hand clutched to his chest, instead of in Derek’s face. 

Derek nodded. He could take the hint. Stiles let go of his hand and he left the ruined bed, locating the clothes they’d abandoned earlier. By the time he’d pulled on his shoes, Stiles was somewhat presentable as well, and stood by the window, holding it open. 

Derek gave in to his urge and kissed him one final time before he left. It was easy to pretend for a moment that this was the first of many goodbye kisses, quickly stolen or freely given when one of them had to leave, a brief token of affection to tide them over until the next and the next and the next. 

Stiles didn’t react to this kiss like he had all the ones before. He stood frozen and allowed Derek to touch his lips to his, with none of the warmth or surging responsiveness. The stillness chased away any fantasies he had running around his brain, and closed up his throat with disappointment, but as he pulled away, Stiles’ lips clung to his a little longer than was necessary, leaning forward just a tiny bit into Derek’s retreat. 

Derek was out the window and dropping down from the eavestrough in seconds, shaking his head to clear it of visions of lazy mornings, shared showers and hectic family dinners.

**

Stiles lobbed the ball to his dad and held back his wince at the tiny twinge in his ribs. When he’d fallen yesterday after--he’d hit the footboard pretty hard. It hadn’t bruised much, but Stiles had poked the fading yellowy brown marks in the bathroom that morning, and he was being extra careful. 

He could have begged off, told his dad he was too tired to throw a ball around, but he didn’t have the heart. For one, the last time Stiles’ dad had asked if he wanted to go outside and do something so stereotypically white middle-class family had been approximately never.(Not true, actually. Just under 8 years.) For another, Stiles’ dad might be mall security, now, but he’d been a damn good cop. He could sense a lie, if Stiles was telling one, and could piece together the true reason for his refusal, as well as a few back up excuses, each worse than the next. 

So, Stiles grabbed his crosse and a ball he’d shoved in the corner of his gym bag and they drove out here, a small field of flat grass on the edge of the west side of the preserve, both of them studiously ignoring how close this plot of land was to the cemetery. It was steps, really, if they cut through the jutting wall of trees, like Derek always did. 

It was easy to avoid conversation when they were 15 feet away from each other, so Stiles threw himself into their game. The sun was pretty warm this time of day, so his skin felt uncomfortably moist, and his heart rate spiked every time his dad tossed the ball back at him, but he had to admit it was kind of nice. He could lose himself in the rhythm of the back and forth of the ball and forget that they had ever been anything but a father and son who loved each other just hanging out. 

Which, of course, was why Derek Hale’s ostentatious black Camaro had to roll up to the edge of the field. _Don’t turn off the car, Derek,_ Stiles pleaded, silently. _Just drive away. I can’t deal with you right now._

No such luck. Derek unfolded from the driver’s seat and, mercifully, hovered awkwardly by the open door. Stiles tore his eyes away from the picture he made, leaning by that gorgeous car, in his stupid leather jacket, the sun casting shadows in the hollows of cheeks, smooth from that morning’s razor. His dad’s hand was clenched tight around the ball that he still held, and his shoulders were tensed in that way Stiles knew led to nothing good. 

“It’s fine, Dad,” Stiles rushed to say, and raised his hands placatingly. “Just give me a minute.”

Stiles jogged over to the car, feeling like the world was in slow motion. He stopped at the passenger side of the car. He needed the barrier the car made between them, or it would have been too easy to fall forward into another long embrace, and let go all the tension he was carrying in his shoulders. 

He’d never do that, though. His dad was behind him, and he knew every move they made was being watched by those eagle eyes. There was no choice being made, here. Stiles didn’t have to weigh any pros or cons. It didn’t matter what kind of home life he had to look forward to, subtly and carefully trying to keep his father from drinking himself to death. 

He would always choose his dad. If it meant that he had to cut Derek loose as finally as possible, then he would do it. 

“You have to go.” 

“Why?” 

Derek didn’t try to hide the fact that he was angry, and Stiles could appreciate that. He would be angry too, if someone he cared about and had had awesome(tender, beautiful) sex with threw him over for their deadbeat parent.

“You just have to. Don’t talk to me anymore.” 

“Stiles.”

“Stop. I can’t--” What couldn’t he do? He couldn’t keep sneaking around with Derek when he’d never be able to acknowledge him in public. He couldn’t just be Derek’s fuckbuddy when the mood struck them. He couldn’t entertain the fantasy that his life was just his own. 

“I can’t be seen with you anymore,” he finally decided on, and he didn’t wait to see Derek’s reaction. He turned away from him and walked quickly back to his dad. 

“What did he want?” His dad asked, with way too much venom for such a simple question about a teenager. 

“Nothing.” Stiles’ chest hurt as he heard Derek’s car start behind him with a rumble. “He didn’t want anything I could give him.”

**

Derek sped away, wishing the spitting of loose gravel was loud enough to cover Stiles’ words. He could smell the salt of unshed tears when Stiles had told him to go, but he heard no stutter in Stiles’ heartbeat as he assured his dad that Derek wanted nothing. Was nothing. 

Going to see Stiles had been stupid thing to do. He’d been high off the possibilities of the day before, and had foolishly hoped that Stiles might start making up for 6 years of being voluntarily under his father’s thumb and make a choice that would make him happy. 

Derek wouldn’t tell his mother or any police officer about what John had done to Stiles. He had no proof, and Stiles would deny it to his last breath. Plus, Stiles would never forgive him, and Derek wasn’t selfless enough to be able to hand that. 

Derek pulled into his spot at the end of their long driveway and was less than human before he’d cleared the car door. He could hear Cora calling his name from the porch, but he was too far gone to care. He’d made a gamble and lost, and he needed time to heal from his stupid mistake. 

**

Stiles knew when Derek entered the cafeteria on Monday, because he felt the weight of eyes on him. Or maybe he’d just developed a sixth Derek-sense after all these years of them orbiting each other. 

He could picture Derek, unashamedly unpacking the lunch his mother made him and packed with care in a brown paper bag every day, exchanging manly nods with Boyd and Isaac, his fellow seniors. Stiles didn’t want to look, but he wanted Derek to be watching him out of the corner of his eye. He wanted Derek to pine, though it was selfish. Stiles wondered if selfishness could be hereditary. He had too small a pool to go on. 

Lydia sat next down to him, dropping her salad-laden tray on the table and ignoring him completely. Painfully aware of his potential audience, he turned his chair toward hers and straddled it, leaning obviously into her space plastering on a dopey smile. She rebuffed him, as she always did, so he turned his chair back and slouched, accepting Scott and Allison’s sympathetic smiles with a fake self-deprecating one. 

His ritual performed, he finally looked over to Derek’s table. Derek was staring at them, his face set in his default serial killer blankness. But Stiles could see the cracks in that mask, because his was just as flawed. 

“Do you want to go?”

Scott’s voice, and his steadying hand on his shoulder, startled him out of his staredown with Derek. He was looking at Stiles with his trademark concerned puppy face.

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, bro.” 

Stiles had never told Scott why he and Derek weren’t friends anymore. He’d just given him the barest details. _We grew up together. Some things changed, now we don’t talk._ He’d allowed Scott to assume some things, so whenever they were in the same place as Derek, Scott glared in his direction, took Stiles’ shoulder in his brotherly grip and tugged them as far away as possible. 

Stiles let him do it, never said ‘it’s my fault. I’m the shithead who can’t tell his dad to fuck off for once in his life.’ It was nice to have someone worry about his feelings and give him concerned puppy dog looks. Plus, the comforting hand on his arm served the other purpose of holding him back from running into Derek’s arms and never letting go.


	3. Come Over Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lo3lxS-6joY)

Derek looked up at the overcast sky with some relief. It had been a warm and sunny month, and he was glad that the desolate scene across the way wasn’t being mocked by persistent brightness. 

Derek hurried across the lawn to join the group, pushing through his tiredness. He hadn’t slept the whole plane trip and hadn’t yet been home to drop off his bag or shower away the grime of 8 hours of travel. Changing into his suit had eaten up all the time he’d had to spare. The stiff and sombre official started talking, so he stood at the back, instead of weaving through the small gathering to find his mother. 

It would be difficult to find her, since they all looked the same. Collectively, they made a tiny pool of darkness in the vast cemetery, all with the same bleak purpose: Mourning the death of John Stilinski. 

**

It was a modest gathering. In attendance were a few deputies who’d remembered Stiles’ dad well from the BHSD. Some buddies from his sporadic AA visits. Assorted people who’d weighed a ceremony celebrating the life of a man they sort of knew against catching up on sleep on a Sunday morning and made this choice. Stiles couldn’t say whether it was the right one. His dad hadn’t had many friends, and almost no family. Stiles was an only child from a long line of only children. Mostly, they were friends of Stiles, there to hug him and tell him how sorry they were like that would fix anything. 

Stiles had wanted the service to be outside, since his dad had always itched as soon as he passed the threshold of a church. The catholic officiant was in deference to his babcia, who Stiles could picture gasping in horror at the thought of her Januszek not being buried properly. 

_(Christmas Eve Mass was the worst. Stiles was bored, and every song had a million verses, and only his mom sang them with a pretty voice. Everyone else sounded like a Pokemon. He didn’t want to fall asleep like a baby, but he was_ so bored. _When the song finally ended and they all sat down on the hard pews, he felt his dad grab his hand, and he thought they might leave, and Stiles would have to sit through a lecture from Babcia about being good in church, but then his dad’s fingers curled around his, thumb on top. Silently, his dad’s thumb began to dance around his and Stiles caught on quickly. One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war.)_

It didn’t really matter, though. She was dead. Stiles didn’t believe in any kind of afterlife, for her or for his dad, or for him. He was alone. Staring at the urn and the spray of flowers he’d picked at random from list of cheapest options, it finally hit him that he was an orphan. If he’d been a couple of years younger, he would have been shuffled into the foster system. Thankfully, he was legally an adult, as of 3 weeks ago, and to his name, he had a tiny, run down house, an acceptance letter to Berkeley and two graves to come back to visit when he was feeling masochistic. 

_(“Make a wish, buddy” his dad urged, setting the plate piled high with devil’s food in front of him. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and wished as hard as he could for the thing he wanted even more than the Gameboy he knew was waiting in the present bag he’d yet to open. He wished for his dad to be home more often. He wished for his dad to not be too tired to come with him and his mom to the park on the weekend. He dug into his cake with a gap-toothed smile and looked up his dad when a big, strong hand ruffled the short hair on the top of his head.)_

Scott had looked at him that morning while he helped him tie his tie, like he wanted to say so much. Like he thought Stiles should be weeping and wailing on the morning of his father’s memorial service. Stiles had done all his crying at the hospital right after, when the doctor told him his dad had died before they’d pried him out of the twisted hunk of metal that was his car. Harder still, when they’d told him, gently, that no one else had been hurt, though it had been close. Scott never had said anything. He’d just gripped his shoulder comfortingly. They had an agreement, he and Scott. They didn’t talk about their dads. 

_(“Break, Stiles, break!”_

_“I’m doing it!”_

_The jeep squeaked to a stop at the end of their driveway just as the gas tanker thundered by, way too fast for a residential area. There was a long moment of stunned, grateful silence, then his dad snorted and Stiles cracked up. They laughed until there was tears in their eyes and their ribs ached. They hadn’t even gotten on the road and Stiles had nearly creamed them both.)_

Stiles’ eyes had been dry since he’d collapsed into Melissa’s arms in the ugly, uncomfortable waiting room. His sadness had seemed to dry up along with them, when he woke the next morning to a list of preparations he needed to make either before or after he crammed for his Chem final. He’d zombied through those days, feeling nothing, but now he was feeling something. 

Stiles was angry. Staring down at the whole in the ground where the urn vault that he’d shelled out a hundred bucks for was going to go, he was furious. All the time Stiles had spent trying to get his dad back on the wagon. All the colleges he hadn’t applied to, because he didn’t want to be over an hour away or stay in a dorm, in case his dad fell asleep in a pile of his own vomit when he finally passed out for the night. All the things Stiles had ever given up, all the people (person) he’d pushed away, and his father gets in a car after his bottle ran out and wraps it around a lamppost 3 blocks from their house while Stiles was at lacrosse practice. 

It was enough to make him want to scream. 

**

The officiant said the last few words, and most of the people in attendance faded away, Derek included. He walked quickly in a wide circle, knowing his mother would catch up at some point. He knew he should leave, but he couldn’t seem to force himself to wander in the direction of his mother’s car. 

Instead, he prowled through the sea of monuments, tugging and loosening the tie around his neck, feeling like it was choking him, before he unfastened the knot with jerky pulls. He wished it were Stiles’ long fingers pulling his collar away from his neck so that there was more room to mark it, own it, like he owned every other part of Derek. 

New York was a wide, varied pool of young people just like him. He could go out any night into the teeming masses of girls or guys who wanted to get off, or make a connection or find their other half. He could date. Get marked by someone else. But he doesn’t do that anymore. Not since Stiles allowed him to kiss his tears away and twist their bodies together into something that resembled Derek’s DNA. Inextricable from Stiles. 

Derek’s aimless circle brought him back to the interment site, where Stiles sat in the only rickety lawn chair the groundskeepers had provided for the grief-stricken. Stiles stared at the freshly turned ground, his face turned away, but Derek could see the broken line of his body, still with sorrow where it was normally pulsating with life. 

Derek remembered the day Stiles’ mom hadn’t come home from the hospital. Stiles had stayed over at Derek’s house, the first of many sleepovers. For the first couple of hours of his visit, Stiles had sat on the end of Derek’s bed, gently stroking a soft cotton blouse in his lap. 

_(“Do you want to sleep?”_

_Stiles shook his head no._

_Derek sat on the bed next to him._

_“She packed up her clothes,” Stiles said, in a small voice. “All of Mom’s clothes are in big boxes and she’s only got her PJs.”_

_Stiles’ voice trembled and Derek’s arm came up to wrap around his shuddering chest._

_“Derek. I don’t think she’s coming back.”)_

Now, as then, Derek couldn’t keep his hand from Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles looked up, startled, and his eyes blinked wide up at Derek. The chair fell back when Stiles stood, but neither of them spared it a glance. 

Stiles’ pale, tight lips began to tremble and his hand came up to rest on Derek’s chest. He could feel the light pressure over his heart, but the heat that emanated from those fingertips was all in Derek’s head. He knew this, yet he reached for Stiles’ hand, to see if holding it would somehow transfer that warmth through his veins to the cold pit of his heart. Before he could grasp it, Stiles lurched forward and then they were clinging to each other as hard as they ever had as boys. 

_(“I’m glad we’re married now, Derek. That means you can come to my house whenever we want.” Derek grinned into Stiles’ short, bristly hair, then jabbed his fingers into Stiles’ ribs, to Stiles’ shrieking glee.)_

Stiles’ chest heaved, but his face was dry, pressed up against Derek’s neck. Derek’s mouth was pressed into the tender skin below his ear and the salty, humid space smelled so strongly of Stiles, it made Derek lightheaded. 

_(“And that’s Orion.” Stiles pointed to the middle of the star map pinned to the roof of their fort. “He was a hero, so he’s kind of like you.”)_

Stiles’ long arms wrapped around him like they always had, finding the divot of Derek’s hip and the juncture where his shoulder met his neck. Their limbs are drawn like magnets to the places where they fit like puzzle pieces. 

_(Derek watched Stiles fling his hands in expansive gestures, describing how perfectly he would fit in with what Stiles thought New York would be like, thinking he should inject some sort of opinion, but too bewitched by the merry sparkle of amber eyes to clutter up the conversation with his words.)_

Derek tightened his arms on a reflex when Stiles pulled away, clutching retreating limbs with desperate, barely blunted nails. He turned his head to where Stiles was staring, the stony face and hurt-filled eyes restored. 

His mother was standing a few feet away, fingering her ring of keys and looking sorry to have intruded. Scott McCall was a few steps behind her, decidedly not sorry. Stiles didn’t linger, or look again at Derek. He brushed past Talia and leaned in to McCall’s hand on his shoulder as they headed for the entrance. 

He barely heard his mother’s voice as she brushed a hand down his arm and murmured, “I’m heading out, take as long as you need,” but was all the permission Derek needed to turn and run away from the scent of newly turned earth and weighty, draining grief. 

**

Stiles hadn’t meant to, but Derek’s orbit pulled him in like battered, frozen piece of space junk. He would have stayed there until the sun set, but he’d have recognized Scott’s uncomfortable cough from miles away and he was pulling away before it fully registered in his brain that he hadn’t wanted to. 

He turned, and saw Talia Hale hovering a few feet away. Her presence was an electric shock of suffocating guilt. Everything that his dad had ever said about her and her family, the bitter hatred, the mocking scorn that hid his jealousy so poorly, all those things that Stiles had always disagreed with, came to the forefront of his mind, overlaying her dark, sympathetic form with greed and self-importance and suddenly she was a cartoon villain in the fucked up Disney movie of his life. 

Stiles went to Scott on stiff legs that felt like they could buckle with one wrong move. The guilt morphed as the stone and wrought iron gate drew closer. How many times had he wanted to tell his dad that he was wrong? That you couldn’t paint a whole family with a brush already stained by resentment? 

Before he got 20 feet away from Derek, he wanted to go back. He wanted that warmth. He hadn’t been warm in so long. It was fucking tiring being so cold all the time. 

“I have to go. I’ll see you later, bro.”

“Stiles? Stiles, come back.”

He didn’t listen, just headed back to where he came, but Derek wasn’t at the grave anymore. He was gone, and so was his mother. Stiles could hear Scott asking him to come back, but there wasn’t much point. He had no reception to go to. No one celebrated the life of a man killed before 50 by a drunken car wreck (Before 40 from the death of his wife.) with sandwiches and watered down orange drink. He had all the time in the world. 

A weak breeze stirred the humid air as Stiles stood ignoring his best friend and staring at the empty space next to his parent’s graves. He felt unmoored. Adrift. For the last few weeks, he’d had one task or another that he’d had to get done, had to check off his list so that he could move on to the next. Now, there was nothing.

Stiles let his eyes drift to the trees where the edge of the preserve butted up against the graveyard, where the tamed grass became wild and carefully cultivated bushes melded with thick underbrush.

 _(Stiles fell to his knees, then rolled to his back, laughing hard enough to make his belly hurt. The sky was a twirling dream of white and blue. He and Derek had rolled down the hill ten times already, and they had to wait a little longer each time for the dizziness to subside. Derek hit the grass beside him, giggling in his weird, chuffing way that always made Stiles laugh harder. The trip down had been_ so fast _that time, Stiles felt like he'd left his stomach at the top. He reached for Derek's hand without looking and held it like an anchor to keep himself from spinning off of the world into the still whirling sky.)_

The sight made him smile, though it probably looked grotesque. A cracked, disused parody of the grin his father had always told him was just like his mother's. His feet started walking toward the forest before he’d even told them to move, then he was running for where the trees were thick and dark even when the sun was high. Dark like a black hole, where what went in never came out. 

**

Derek shifted as soon as he was sure he couldn’t be seen. He longed for the wolf, wished he had the ability to shift fully. He wanted what his mother and Laura had spoken of with caution in their voices, the risk they warn of: That his humanity would slip away. 

At some point, it changed. He was no longer running from Stiles. He ran into his pain instead of away from it, letting the branches whip his skin and catch his clothes. He felt like he was searching for something. It wasn’t comfort. There was no comforting him now. Something in him was urging, _go faster, run harder, run_ toward the pulsing, aching fear of an animal cornered, no other option but…

Derek lost his breath and almost stumbled. Through the trees he saw a dark shape swaying like the saplings that grew precariously at the lip of the deep ravine. The same great crack in the earth that Derek had unknowingly run toward. He used to walk the edge when he wanted to feel his heart beat faster. The drop was enough to kill even him. 

A flash of white caught his eye and Derek’s quick intake of surprised breath brought with it a scent he knew better than his own. Stiles. In the space of heart beats, Derek was at the edge, pulling him back. They both hit the ground, and Derek held Stiles tight against his chest, even as he struggled.

After minutes of useless writhing, Stiles started crying, with great, wheezing sobs. They grew louder and harsher, until he was screaming into the quiet preserve. When he stopped, his air sputtering out like an empty gas tank, the sound of his agony echoed out into the trees above them and the ravine.

“He’s gone, Derek.” Stiles’ voice was wrecked, and his body was limp in Derek’s arms. 

“Yes.”

“I fucked up so bad.” He laughed, wetly, mirthlessly. “I should hate you. He always did. ”

“You’re not him. He wasn’t right all the time.”

“He was my dad.” 

Derek squeezed him tighter. “He was. He was your father, and you love him. You’ll always love him, and he loved you. But he fucked up too, Stiles.” 

They stayed like that a long time. Stiles breathing slowly, but unevenly against his chest, Derek wishing he could turn his veins black with Stiles' sorrow. He didn’t ask why Stiles had come out here. Why he’d been so close to -- that. They just existed and listened to the sound of the preserve.

“Derek?” 

“Yeah?”

“I want to--Can I stay with you?” His voice broke on the last word and Derek grabbed his hand and held it over their hearts. Stiles squeezed back. “All this time, we could have--no more running.” 

“Yeah, Stiles. No more running.” 

Stiles’ father was dead. They would both mourn for a long time for a broken man who loved his son enough, but loved his wife too much. There was a chasm of hurt between them that would take years to bridge. 

They had each other and they had time. A world of time. 

_Golden sun warmed their skin and spots danced in their eyes. The summer would last a thousand years and their “I love yous” whispered without voice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, there you have it. Hands down, the angstiest thing I've ever written. Was it worth it? You tell me. Seriously, please tell me. I'd love comments telling me if this is a style I should pursue, or not.


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